


Where Ends Meet

by Nuwandalz



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuwandalz/pseuds/Nuwandalz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They need each other. Peter has always recognized that on some level, especially the moment he decided to try taking Sylar apart with more than fists and abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Ends Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an AU future. Refers to events generally right up until 4x12.  
> Beta'd by rtwofan (any other mistakes are all mine).

Time travel works to only a certain extent – you can’t stop something that is supposed to happen. There are three constants for Peter’s future; an eventual scar, people dying and Sylar.

He dreams of futures he can’t have access to, of Sylar calling himself Gabriel and having a son called Noah, of his brother as president, of Claire being sleek and deadly.

Peter knows people can change, everybody deserves a second chance, every person was once a child with a future ahead of them. 

Arthur used to be his father and Sylar used to be Gabriel Gray. Peter used to be a nurse, but now he’s just Peter. 

With that in mind, Peter feels restless sitting there listening to Bennet discuss Sylar as a ‘problem’, as something needing to be ‘stopped’. There are discussions of separating Sylar’s head from his body, of smashing the brain to a pulp, of finding a way to kill Sylar in a way the healing won’t fix. The word ‘Sylar’ sounds a lot like ‘animal’ out of Bennet ’s mouth and Peter’s reminded of stories where animals sense oncoming death in a person and are drawn to them, staying until the dying have passed on. Animals aren’t emotionless, and Peter thinks it’s an aggravating comparison to draw. He’s seen sides of Sylar to prove there’s something more there than power and bloodlust. He remembers the look of utter heartbreak on his face as he cradled the broken body of his son, his expression of concern over Peter’s own mother and his almost glee-like expression as he realized he wasn’t to be the ‘bomb’ of New York. 

Peter walks out of the meeting halfway, memories of being a prisoner at Primatech resurfacing. He doesn’t want to be involved in this, or the next company that plans to become a judge and executioner of people. 

He never intended to go off looking for Sylar, but he finds him anyway, a busy street separating them. Peter rushes to cross the road, ignores the blaring horns and yelling from drivers and instead focuses on not losing sight of the killer.

Turns out that Sylar waited for him, standing patiently on the sidewalk, arms hanging from his sides, amused look lighting up his face.

“Are you the one they sent?” he asks, sounding bored. Peter wants to remind Sylar that out of everyone, Peter’s the only one with a real chance to best him. The moment passes too quickly with Sylar taking the lead to walk down the street, brushing past people nonchalantly. 

Peter can’t help but wince every time an innocent person bumps into Sylar as they walk. He feels as if something dark and wrong is crawling over his skin just by being in such proximity to the killer. But Sylar’s quiet, apparently just enjoying the walk – happy to just be alive and it’s something that curls into Peter’s heart and makes him feel warm. He knows that even if Arthur did steal his original ability to share a person’s ability through empathy – he never could take the empathy itself. It’s there as a part of him, linking him to everyone through threads that weave between his heart and another’s. The link between himself and Sylar is taut, almost pulled so tight that Peter knows it will snap soon. He feels it out, imagines a string connecting them, rotting away from Sylar’s end. Sylar stops walking, an arm swinging out to bump against Peter’s chest.

Peter blinks away the images of the string snapping in two and looks to Sylar who’s staring back at him, grinning darkly.

“You trust too easily Peter,” Sylar tells him. Peter recognizes they’re at the mouth of an alley; he’d been too lost in his own thoughts to really pay attention. Sylar crowds him back into the shadows, the sounds of people bustling about lost under the roar of white noise (fear) inside his own head. Sylar’s never been one for personal barriers, prefers getting close to throw the other person off, his eyes staring almost through Peter, seeing something that Peter couldn’t even guess at.

“You looked out for me,” Peter says slowly, the words stumbling out. “I owe you thanks.”

It’s true, but it’s something Peter doesn’t really feel. On a scale, Sylar helping Peter out with Arthur is barely ranking when it’s sided next to Sylar attacking Claire or the number of people Sylar’s killed.

“That was a _long_ time ago Peter,” Sylar points out. “A bit late now for impromptu gratitude don’t you think?” 

Peter shakes his head feeling frustrated and pushes against Sylar’s chest, shoving him back. Sylar grins and steps back further, giving Peter room to leave. Peter eyes the space between their bodies warily. 

“Just, be careful okay,” Peter offers after a moment. “I agree that what you do is wrong, but I also don’t agree with what they want to do – putting you down like a rabid dog.”

“Is that what you came here for, to warn me?” Sylar asks, looking Peter up and down. “Protecting me, Peter? Giving me a head start in the latest cat and mouse?”

Peter unintentionally presses himself back against the wall, wishes for a moment D.L’s power resided in him like the memory still does.

“I’ve had quite an experience with you Petrelli’s and your _favours_.”

“It’s not like that,” Peter protests, angry again. “This just makes us even.”

Sylar laughs and Peter finally unlocks his muscles enough to move away from the wall, away from Sylar.

“Just, don’t give me a reason to kill you either,” Peter says and leaves the alley.

“You’re not a killer Peter,” Sylar sing-songs after him, clearly amused. Peter doesn’t look back.

-o-

The next time Peter sees Sylar, he’s pushed up on his toes and kissing Sylar slowly. There’s fear in his gut and it makes his hands shake from where they’re curled in Sylar’s hair. Sylar doesn’t move, barely responds to Peter touching him like this. Peter’s heart is pounding so hard it’s painful, and then they’re falling down and down off the roof. Sylar clutches onto Peter hard, turns them in mid-fall so that Peter takes the impact first, saving Sylar as they smash against the concrete ground. Peter dies and Sylar lives.

“Dream walking?” Sylar asks, the words bringing Peter alive suddenly. “That’s an interesting ability.”

Peter stares down at the bodies crumpled on the ground, the dead Peter’s legs are tangled with Sylar’s, blood circling them.

“Time for you to wake up,” the other Sylar says, pushing his hands against Peter’s chest.

Peter wakes up.

-o-

It’s an ability he’s gotten in passing, from a patient, the barista he got his coffee from, the cab driver. He doesn’t know where it came from, especially since at first he couldn’t recognize its activation. After long hours and hardly any decent meals he’d assumed his mind was going into overdrive and giving him the weird dreams. He hadn’t ever considered the possibility the dreams weren’t his to begin with.

He’s with Matt and Janice, watching them take care of the baby and sometimes he’s with Claire, pushing her on a swing. Peter’s walked through Mohinder’s dreams, feeling sand beneath his feet and bringing the red dust with him when he dreams with Micah.

The dreams make him feel closer to everyone and he seeks them out, night after night, trying to tie his threads with their hearts with more links, making more of a chain. He can feel everyone he’s ever cared about beat in his own heart, a pulse that thrums through everyone. Most of them don’t know it’s an ability, they assume Peter’s just on their mind and Peter doesn’t mention it when they ring just to check in with him. The only one who knows is Emma, who keeps his secret with a smile. Her dreams are colourful and amazing and are often filled with a strange buzzing noise, almost silent. He speaks to her in these dreams and she cries, her fingers brushing over his lips. His voice is loud in her dreams, but she doesn’t complain – it’s the only thing she’s been able to hear for a long time. 

It’s only after he falls ill with the flu does the dreaming become a problem, his medication making him sleep through the day. Nobody but baby Matt is asleep at this time, and Peter feels sick and dizzy after being surrounded by whirls of colour in the dream. He floats, lost and needing to connect, wandering until he can find dreams to walk through. He doesn’t feel trapped until he gets caught in a nightmare, hopelessness drowning him until he can’t breathe. 

A hand grabs at his own, pulls him out of the oily black water and he stars at Sylar, uncomprehending. 

“In my dreams again Peter?”

But Peter can’t remember to talk, because now they’re back at Kirby Plaza and his hands are glowing brightly. He feels like he’s suffocating again, stuck in another nightmare and Peter can’t stop burning up, glowing so bright he wishes he could close his eyes.

Sylar grabs for him again and they’re in a room full of mirrors, each reflection showing a grisly death.

“What are you doing Peter?”

Peter gasps for breath, avoids looking in the mirror and just tries to breathe.

“I’m sick, the medication I took, I think it’s got me stuck. I keep falling through people’s dreams.”

“Nightmares,” Sylar corrects, towering over him. “Every time you walk into my dreams they’re nightmares. You change them.”

Peter struggles to stand, keeps his eyes focussed on Sylar’s, ignores the screams surrounding him.

“I’m in control of this now,” Sylar tells him. “Time for you to wake up.”

The push once again throws him back into his body and he wakes groggily to his own ceiling. His eyes are heavy and gritty, but closing them sends him back to sleep.

He’s drowning in dreams, the connections lost to him no matter how hard he reaches out, everybody is still awake. He tries to reach out to Sylar, the only person who he could remember finding him, but there’s no thread for him to reach for. The swirl of dreams makes him lose himself, forcing him to live through strangers who are sleeping and dreaming. He can’t remember which way is out and Peter yells out in panic.

He wakes up with a cry, his body lurching uncomfortably as he’s hurled back. Sylar stands over him, looking dirty and mussed, breathing heavily and Peter can feel pain radiating from his jaw.

“Couldn’t find you,” Peter gasps out, his head pounding.

“Wasn’t asleep,” Sylar points out reasonably.

Sylar lets Peter rest, punches him awake anytime he goes too deep. When night comes, Peter drifts into Claude’s dreams and feels safe.

-o-

Waking up, Peter notices that Sylar’s gone; the apartment quiet and offering only dirty footprints to suggest that the killer had ever been there at all. Peter finds himself toeing back into his shoes and running a hand through his hair, trying to relieve the still hazy sick feeling running through his body. He leaves his apartment without a destination in mind and finds himself at the nearby park, passing children and their mothers, buskers and stalls. It doesn’t take long for him to run into Sylar again, spotting the killer sitting down on one of the benches, looking relaxed and still in the clothes Peter last saw him in. He seats himself next to the killer, lets his hands clasp loosely over his knees, hunching forward.

“Thanks for waking me.”

Sylar smirks, but doesn’t say anything, content to stare out across the park.

“Bennet and his friends found me, put up quite a fight with that Haitian helping them.”

Peter sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, unsure what to say.

“I owe you again, for helping me.”

Sylar turns to look at him, eyes watchful.

Peter clears his throat and feels embarrassed at himself for being so weak in front of someone like Sylar.

“I know how you work Peter,” Sylar comments, sounding slightly distracted. His eyes linger on Peter’s forehead, looking through him. “You’re incredibly selfless, a hero. There’s nothing from you I want.”

Sylar stands smoothly, barely a hitch in motion. Peter asks him to wait, his fingers snatching out to brush lightly against Sylar’s wrist. Peter holds onto Sylar’s wrist, stands himself so that the height difference isn’t so jarring. He strokes his thumb lightly against the pulse underneath, but Sylar makes no sign to show he’s noticing.

“Just, be careful okay. You might not be so lucky with Noah second time round.”

Sylar brings a free hand to brush across Peter’s temple, fingers curling faintly over Peter’s ear before drawing back and away.

Peter watches Sylar leave.

-o-

His moans are being dragged out from his chest without his consent and Peter tries to muffle himself with the pillow. Sylar pushes into him slowly, taking his time, his hands resting firmly on Peter’s hips. The bed creaks softly beneath them and Peter tries desperately to tune the sound out. Everything here is clear and distinct, the smells tickling his nose and the sweat kissing down his spine is so clear in his mind he knows he’ll have trouble forgetting the image when he wakes up.

There’s just _not enough_ to get Peter over and he whines shamelessly, feeling Sylar keep him just on the edge of orgasm. He feels so open and wide, Sylar’s cock moving inside him and everything is just disturbingly perfect. He knows nothing like this could ever be real.

Sylar presses forward into him, and Peter feels him lick a stripe up his spine. He feels warm and alive, and he’s _so close_ he can hardly bare it any longer.

Peter grunts and suddenly he’s being thrown back into his body, waking up painfully. Without thinking he pushes a hand down into his already sticky boxers and strokes himself until he’s coming over his hand and messing up his bed sheets, the dream of Sylar’s echoing in his mind.

He puts it all out of his mind the moment he showers, the freezing water doing wonders to cool off his overheated body and wake him up completely. Peter dresses, grabs breakfast and works without thinking of Sylar, his mind busy working over everything that isn’t actually a dream.

Emma smiles at him, catching his eye as he’s getting ready to leave, his shift making him feel sore and grimy. He feels a little guilty that he hasn’t dreamwalked with Emma for a while, but she makes no mention of it, possibly assuming he’s lost the ability. 

There’s a call from Claire waiting on his phone when he returns home, kicking shoes off to the corner. She’d like to visit again, feeling a little stifled and missing her uncle. Peter makes a note to call her back, thinks about an appropriate time for her to visit that won’t clash with his shifts and her classes. He makes himself dinner and eats it without really tasting anything, eyes glancing over the newspaper reporting mysterious deaths again. Peter finishes his day with dishes in the sink, paper in the bin and a handful of sleeping pills before crawling into bed early. 

He focuses on the small fragile thread that links him to Sylar and follows it, hoping it doesn’t snap like it’s been known to. Peter’s lucky this time as the thread pulls him to Sylar and he falls into the other man’s dreaming space and waits.

It doesn’t take long before Sylar is dreaming and opening the world up to Peter, giving him something to interact with.

“You make me drowsy when you focus,” Sylar comments. They’re in what looks to be a club, flashing lights and dancing bodies, but the music is muffled and quiet making it easy to hear each other.

“What is this?”

“I’m daydreaming,” Sylar says with a grin and pulls Peter towards himself. Sylar’s hands cup the back of Peter’s head as Sylar kisses him, tongue licking its way inside Peter’s mouth. Sylar’s hands drag from Peter’s skull down to his shoulders where they grip tightly, forcing the blunt edges of Sylar’s nails into Peter’s skin through the fabric of his shirt.

Peter can’t help but sigh into the manhandling, the way Sylar pushes him down slowly but still trying to fuck Peter’s mouth with his tongue until the height difference forces them to part. Peter falls the rest of the way to his knees, watching as Sylar backs himself up to a chair and eases down. He leans forward and grabs Peter by the collar of his shirt, forcing him to slide forward on his knees until he’s where Sylar needs him to be.

Sylar’s watching him with his usual intense gaze and Peter holds back a groan, focuses instead of leaning into Sylar’s lap and undoing his pants. He helps ease Sylar’s cock out, already straining towards Sylar’s belly and Peter lets his mind float within the dream as he moves forward and takes Sylar into his mouth slowly.

Peter’s sloppy, doesn’t bother using his hands to keep Sylar’s dick in place, just places his palms on Sylar’s knees bracing himself. He breathes through his nose but knows details like breathing doesn’t really matter in the dreams. He presses his tongue flat against Sylar’s cock and sucks slowly, eyes peering up at Sylar’s face to take in the reactions.

Sylar groans as if pained and his hands twitch on the armrests, unsure what they want to be touching. Eventually Sylar brings a hand to splay across Peter’s cheek, his thumb brushing across Peter’s stretched lips and rubbing against his own dick. Peter bobs his head, trying to increase the pressure of his lips without accidentally letting his teeth catch Sylar.

His teeth do manage to graze Sylar’s dick lightly, but Sylar moans through it, thumb stroking up over Peter’s cheekbone, petting him.

Peter tries to press his tongue up against Sylar harder, coaxing the other man to come. It makes Sylar’s hips stutter forward, his control slipping and Peter rubs his palms against Sylar’s knees, pleased. He offers more of his mouth, lets Sylar’s cock rest on his tongue heavily before Peter pushes forward, lets Sylar slip further inside until Peter’s nose is nudging heated skin and dark coarse hair. The angle stops him from being able to see Sylar’s face, so he closes his eyes and focuses on everything else, what he can feel and hear. Sylar’s panting is loud to Peter’s ears and the hand against Peter’s cheek is shaking, the tremors going through skin and going straight to Peter’s own dick.

He stays there, holding Sylar deep, drool making his chin wet and the taste and smell of Sylar clawing at his senses and making his heart beat faster. The dream pulls him in deep until he’s able to see Sylar completely, face blissed out and hands touching Peter’s face like he’s something precious.

Peter watches himself and Sylar, presses out against the walls of the dream and thinks to himself that he wants Sylar to come.

Almost instantaneously Sylar does, groaning deep, the flush up his chest barely visible under his shirt. Peter’s point of view shifts back until he’s the one on his knees again, no longer looking at himself. He swallows without tasting, the dream wavering back and becoming less real as Sylar loses control. He lets Sylar’s cock go with a wet sound, sits back on his heels and palms himself through his pants, watching as Sylar tucks himself back in and runs a hand through his hair. Sylar leers at him at the same time as the dream ripples around them, almost fading.

“ _God_ ,” Peter breathes out. “Just, wait—

“I’ll come back,” Sylar tells him. “People are starting to look.”

Peter becomes confused and looks around, noticing that people are actually giving Sylar strange looks.

“You’re actually _daydreaming_?” Peter says, scandalized. “Are you physically at this club?”

Sylar pushes himself out of the chair and awkwardly moves around Peter, the world rippling more violently at the movement. Sylar and the club look transparent and Peter stays where he is on the ground, unsure.

“Sleep Peter,” Sylar tells him before walking into the crowd and disappearing along with the dream. Peter floats in the dreamspace, clutching onto the thread of empathy that connects him to Sylar. After a moment, it snaps and Peter falls becoming lost once again.

He’s jerked harshly into a dream with Sylar in an alleyway and there’s barely a chance for Peter to realize what’s going on before Sylar pushes him up against a wall and attacks his throat with lips and tongue. Peter pants, head knocking against the brick and shirt being bunched up as Sylar pets his stomach, chest and nipples. Sylar bites down in the muscle of Peter’s shoulder making Peter buck against him helplessly, his fingers curling into the hem of Sylar’s pants just for something to hold onto.

Sylar curls around him, pulling his hands away from Peter’s skin to rest an arm across Peter’s chest, pushing him back into the wall. His free hand slides to Peter’s pants using telekinetic fingers to under the button and zipper and wrap around Peter tightly.

Peter chokes at the invisible hand and presses softly back against Sylar, feeling the restraining weight sink into him. Sylar moves to take Peter into his own hand, trails the telekinetic touches around Peter’s balls and further back to tease at his hole. Peter just gulps in air, feeling as if his skin is too tight, too hot.

Sylar pumps his dick, jerking him off in the dark alleyway and using his ability to touch Peter everywhere else. Peter moans quietly, his skin shivering at a touch he can’t see but only feel. He opens his eyes without realizing he’d close them, sees Sylar looking back at him, his eyes dark and blown with arousal. Peter pushes forward urgently, opens his mouth to Sylar’s and breathes moans into the other man’s mouth, feels the hand around his dick pump him just a little harder and faster for his efforts.

Peter desperately wants to come, pushes himself into Sylar’s hand as best he can, feels the bricks scrape roughly against his shoulder blades. He keens, feeling torn apart as pleasure pounds through his entire body. The telekinetic touches feel as if they’re everywhere, pinching his nipples, stroking his sides, slowing opening him. He comes with a shout, sudden, tips his head forward to watch his come coat Sylar’s hand and both their stomachs. Peter sighs and laughs, dropping his head back against the brick and breathing.

Sylar’s heavy hand rests on his chest and with a push, Peter wakes up. There’s come in his boxers and in the sheets again and Peter’s glad he’s the only one who does his washing. He lies on his bed and stretches out, curling his toes. He wonders if the next time he’ll see Sylar will be a dream.

-o-

It’s been a while since Peter’s had time to dreamwalk, night shifts taking over and longer shifts forcing him to only settle for naps and not actual sleep. He feels like he is working on only half his energy, but he hasn’t been prepared to give up his ability for Claire’s healing or Mohinder’s strength – any ability that would make him feel more energized. He uses his break to rest up in one of the back rooms with a coffee, the TV running quietly and he waves Emma over when she sees him. She pauses in the doorway to smile at him and digs out some lollies from one of her pockets, tossing them to Peter before motioning that she’s busy. He smiles at her brightly and nods, watches her walk on by, rolling the packet in his hands before looking up to the television.

There’s a report about a missing person flashing on the television, information about the person’s last whereabouts scrolling across the screen and an image of the interior of a club. Peter realizes the images are familiar to him and it takes him a moment to pinpoint where and why.  
The sudden cold pit in his gut makes him know the missing person is related to Sylar, but there’s a flutter in his chest where the thread of empathy that connects him to the killer makes him hope it’s not. He sits there, feeling cold all over and wondering if he should find out. He can’t help but be suspicious and there’s a part of him whispering it could be a coincidence. But Peter’s never fallen for the coincidence angle, choosing fate and destiny and knowing that everything happens for a reason instead. 

He gives Claire a call when he gets home, the chain he’s created between them pulling him towards her. She can’t offer anything more than support, telling Peter to follow his instinct and reminding him that it wouldn’t be a surprise to know Sylar’s killing again – everyone knows he’s a monster. He tells her he misses her and Peter can hear her smile through the phone. Claire promises she’ll not tell anyone his concerns, understands that her father’s choices aren’t always for the best.

Peter hangs the phone back in the cradle and stares at it for a long time, considers taking some sleeping pills again to drop him into a fitful sleep and dreamwalk with Sylar, corner him there.

The phone rings instead, snapping him out of his thoughts and Peter’s more than surprised when it ends up being Micah on the line.

“I can help you,” Micah tells him, voice crackling over the connection.

-o-

He’s armed with an address that Micah gave him and the ability to walk into dreams. Peter figures that there’s been too much time that’s passed for him to still be getting into fights over Sylar killing. A part of him wants to rage and beat Sylar up for the death of some innocent in a nightclub, but a bigger part of him got swept up in his dreams. He knows that dreams are important, without his dreaming he would never have believed he could fly – could never have gotten to where he was now. He still feels strongly about watching a Gabriel with a son, still believes Noah Bennet ’s strange obsession with keeping people safe by killing is wrong. Peter is still the same Peter who walked out of that meeting, knowing that turning away from Noah’s cause would put a target on his own head.

He also knows that his future will involve an eventual scar, people dying and Sylar.

As he knocks on the banged up door in a place that looks more dead than alive, Peter wonders when he’ll get the scar. Sylar opens the door and sneers down at Peter, but Peter just gives him a strained half smile in return.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Peter offers. It’s enough for Sylar, who steps back and lets Peter inside, closing the door slowly behind him.

-o-

The man Sylar killed ends up having the ability to recognize people with abilities and Peter knows Sylar’s not guilty about it at all. They stand in the middle of the room, watching each other and everything is too real and gritty, nothing like a dream at all. Sylar’s eyes are dark but his skin is pale, his hair looks slightly shiny and his cheeks are rough with stubble. Sylar is simply curious; interested in what Peter has to say in case it’s worth his attention. His eyes drag over Peter slowly, checking perhaps the similarities and differences between reality and dreams for himself.

“I’m not going to stop killing, Peter,” Sylar replies to Peter’s offer of a bargain. “I enjoy it too much.”

“I’ve seen you, in a future. You have the potential to be better than this!”

“You see potential in me?” Sylar says, sounding disgusted and angry. “Being the way I am – I’m _already_ better. Don’t fight for my innocence Peter, it’s unbecoming.”

Peter paces, angry and frustrated and desperately needing this to work. 

“I’m not doing this for _you_ ,” Peter grounds out, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’m doing this for _me_. I can’t, I can’t do this with you when you go out killing innocent people – people like me.”

“Like _us_ ,” Sylar corrects, but Peter ignores him.

“For once, I’d like to be truly selfish. Just, let me have this from you, please.”

“Begging already?” Sylar says, voice silky and dangerous. He moves to circle Peter, eyes like a predator. “I’ve already told you Peter, there’s nothing I want from you.”

Peter stands still, feels Sylar stalk up behind him, breath tickling his ear. He holds his breath, waiting for a killing strike, but Sylar waits the pause out.

“Maybe you’re lying,” Peter says quietly to his shoes. Sylar’s practically pressed up against his back now, heat leeching from one body to the next. “There is something I can give to you.”

Peter turns around, feels himself shaking because he has no idea what he’s doing, where he’s going with this. He presses his fingertips to Sylar’s cheeks, waits a moment to make sure the killer isn’t going to break him into pieces with his mind. Peter kisses Sylar, feeling awkward and bumping his nose. Sylar doesn’t move, and Peter’s reminded of his first dreamwalk with Sylar, the fear in his gut and the unsure kiss. He pushes his hands into Sylar’s hair, tangles his fingers and the locks and feels like he’s completing a puzzle. Sylar’s breath hitches, also remembering the dream and Peter feels his own breath stutter out as an echo. 

Sylar’s grip is painful on Peter’s hips, painful and real and Peter knows he lost his chance to back out of this the moment he teamed up with Micah. They move together, clumsy and awkward because reality doesn’t have the fluid graceful feel of the dreams. Sylar shoves him into a dingy room, the bed creaks loudly when Peter’s thrown onto it, and he groans, embarrassed. The last thing he needs is the squeaking to loop in his brain when this is over. Peter grabs at the bed sheets and yanks them off the bed, shoving them at the floor while Sylar watches, amused.

He drops to the floor and kneels, reaching for Sylar who moves towards him, stops with his feet at Peter’s knees. Peter grabs at Sylar’s pants, fingers fumbling and hopeless as he gets them open and pushes them down to Sylar’s ankles. Sylar steps out of them, looking unconcerned but he stops Peter with a telekinetic body bind when Peter goes to suck him off. An invisible push makes Peter scrabble backwards, his back hitting the floor with a thump, the bed sheets providing limited cushioning. Sylar drops gracefully over him, removes Peter’s own pants easily, throwing them off to the side. He shucks his own top off then does Peter’s, his eyes intense and focussed, looking at something that Peter can’t see.

Sylar’s body is heavy, pinning Peter to the floor, their legs tangling and skin meeting. Peter’s breath is coming out fast, more from anxiety than anything else but Sylar’s only being intimidating in the way that he watches Peter, nothing else. 

“You said you wanted to be selfish Peter,” Sylar tells him, voice low. “I don’t believe you.”

Peter feels himself tense, eyes staring up into Sylar’s hopelessly. He’s not entirely sure he wants this, but if anyone has a chance at making this work, at making Sylar redeemable, it’s him. He knows this like he knew years ago that he could fly. Peter closes his eyes and looks for the worn frail thread that occasionally connects him to Sylar, reaches into his empathy as best he can and ties more links to it, and makes it stronger. He focuses on the dreams, of Sylar’s breathes currently ghosting across his face, uses every feeling he’s ever had towards Sylar build a chain like he’s done with everyone else in his life. He can feel it settle in his heart, another weight to join the others he’s given himself to.

Peter opens his eyes and notices Sylar’s own face look thoughtful and far away. He leans up and kisses Sylar, uses his legs and arms to shift their positions until Sylar’s the one laying amongst the puddle of sheets on the floor. Sylar’s eyes never stray from Peter’s, an expression plastered on his face that Peter thinks looks like shock but suspects it’s just Sylar taking in everything.

He mouths at Sylar’s throat, feels the scratch of stubble across his nose and forehead as he moves. Peter rakes his nails lightly over Sylar’s chest, catches his nipples that make Sylar arch and breathe heavily. He drags sloppy open mouth kisses up under Sylar’s jaw, making his way to Sylar’s mouth where he licks wetly at Sylar’s bottom lip. He can feel Sylar’s dick brushing up against him, his own dick hard and heavy. 

Peter brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks them slowly, watching Sylar’s eyes widen, breaths turning into pants. He slips them out before pushing them at Sylar’s mouth, has a moment to feel the air cool his fingers before they’re taken in, surrounded by wet heat. Sylar wets them, gathers drool enough to give Peter what he needs, lets Peter slip them out of his open mouth. Peter reaches down to press at Sylar’s hole, smearing the saliva best he can. He realizes it won’t be enough to be comfortable for either of them and slides down Sylar’s body, pushing Sylar’s legs apart so that he can settle there between them. 

Sylar helps him rearrange themselves so that Peter can lick at Sylar’s ass easily, tongue pressing flat to the flesh. He swipes over Sylar’s hole with his tongue as wetly as he can, uses his hands to spread Sylar wider. Sylar lets out a moan when Peter pushes his tongue inside, saliva gathering everywhere. Sylar’s fists are clenched tight at his sides and Peter feels a ripple of telekinesis slide over his skin as he fucks into Sylar slowly. The smell of sex starts to make him feel lightheaded and makes it easier for Peter to fall into what he’s doing. He pushes fingers of one hand into Sylar alongside his tongue, his free hand and Sylar’s ability being able to keep them upright and together. He pulls his mouth away, leaning back to watch his fingers slide inside Sylar’s ass slowly, hears Sylar hiss out a breath and moan when Peter twists his fingers, opening him.

The small corkscrewing motions are enough to get Sylar keening quietly and Peter removes his fingers from inside Sylar before wrapping it around Sylar’s cock. Peter guides himself into Sylar with his other hand, pumping Sylar’s dick slowly at the same time. Every part of Peter is screaming at him to move faster, drive in harder and take but he was never that person to begin with and the screaming dies down when he looks down at Sylar and sees eyes blown wide with lust. 

He moves in slow bursts, rocking up into Sylar and easing them into a rhythm. Peter keeps watching Sylar’s face, his wide eyes and open slick mouth as he fucks him, the movement scraping Sylar across the floor. He feels an unfamiliar push at his skin before he’s body is enveloped in a telekinetic hold, a threatening reminder that Sylar’s still got more power over the situation. The feeling melts into touches that glance across his neck, slide down his throat and scratch at Peter’s thighs and Peter bites his lip to keep from making a noise. 

He moves his own hands down to Sylar’s body, knowing the invisible grip will undoubtedly keep them in position. Peter pets Sylar’s stomach, fondles Sylar’s balls and pushes long strokes up Sylar’s chest, mapping out the body with his fingers. He’s trying to get his fingers to imprint an offer Sylar can’t refuse, to scribe that ‘something’ only he could ever offer and Peter hopes that it is something Sylar still wants. Peter isn’t sure if Sylar does actually want this from him, too many people have manipulated Sylar for their own purposes and Sylar probably figures it’s not worth having anymore. Peter would be in a long line of people who have tried to offer such a promise, he hopes the betrayal of his real mother, Angela, Arthur and even Elle hasn’t worn Sylar down.

Peter shifts slightly and fucks up into Sylar’s body, breaking a moan out of Sylar’s throat that sends a tingle right through him. Sylar is so messed up below him, Peter struggles to remember that only a simple thought from Sylar can kill him. He licks an uncoordinated stripe up his palm and takes Sylar in hand again, jerking Sylar off to his thrusts. Peter can feel his mouth moving with unspoken urges and he locks his gaze onto Sylar’s and just _watches_ and fucks and refuses himself to come before Sylar.

Sylar’s breath hitches, quiet grunts ringing out and he’s pushing back onto and into Peter at the same time, eyes bright and body thrumming with pleasure. Peter can feel the telekinesis wavering, Sylar’s control slipping for the briefest of moments and Peter just pushes harder and offers _more_ until Sylar’s groaning, body tightening all over as he comes in Peter’s hand. Peter continues to rock into the body, watches Sylar’s eyes finally roll up into his head, teeth biting down through his lower lip.

The sight and the strange inner _pull_ he feels sends him over as well and Peter fucks out the last of his orgasm into Sylar’s lax body. Sweat makes his lower back feel itchy, slicking in his joints and making his hair stick to his face. Peter pulls out, hears Sylar’s soft grunt and shifts so he can collapse against the floor, heart settling back into his body. Sylar’s hand grips his wrist harshly and Peter feels his hand brought up to Sylar’s mouth, kitten licks taking care of the come. He closes his eyes and just focuses on breathing for a while, loosing himself to the future he’s now brought down on himself. The two of them need each other, and maybe Peter has always recognized that on some level, especially the moment he decided to try taking Sylar apart with more than fists and abilities. 

Sylar presses his thumb into the pad of Peter’s hand to the point of pain before letting go and allowing Peter to bring his arm back to his side. They lay there, side by side and no longer touching, heavy breathing becoming simple breaths in the dirtiest room Peter has ever seen.

“If you don’t want what I can give you, the next time we see each other we’ll fight,” Peter says after a moment, staring at the ceiling. He thinks he’s talking to an empty room at Sylar’s silence and Peter waits it out anxiously, idly bringing to mind his newly formed empathic link with the killer.

The silence grows out and Sylar answers, voice deep and rough.

“I can let you be selfish for this Peter.”

Peter grins at the roof of the room before he eases himself to a sitting position.

“It is selfish,” Peter says, looking down at Sylar. “ _You’re_ being very selfless. Don’t think of it as a role reversal. Think of it as us staying even.”

Peter struggles to stand, body feeling washed out. He stumbles over to where Sylar threw his pants and rummages through the pockets, pulling out a slip of paper. He makes his way back to Sylar and drops to his knees tiredly, offering the slip.

“Names of people with abilities that have committed crimes,” Peter tells him. “Dangerous like the ones they used to lock up in level five. No remorse, simply hurting for pleasure.”

Sylar makes a disgusted face, agreeing with distaste at the idea of killing for no reason.

“They’ll have abilities, you can hunt them, take their power. If they best you, they win. If they don’t, you win. It’ll just be like what you’re doing now, but Micah and I will be limiting your prey.”

Sylar looks up from the paper of names, watches Peter with that strange intense expression, sorting something out.

“I’ve seen what they can do and I don’t agree with what Noah does – capturing and torturing and forgetting humanity. I can’t also let these people destroy what’s good, I can’t sit by and do nothing knowing people need help. I can’t,” Peter stresses. Sylar raises himself up, joining Peter in sitting, fingers holding the list like it’s something to treasure.

“I’m not a killer,” Peter says, meeting Sylar’s eyes.

Sylar grins wide, showing teeth. He rests a kiss at Peter’s temple and pulls back, looking dangerous and awful and everything Peter _needs_.

“ _I_ am.”


End file.
